The blade had been old before his father had returned from China with it at the end of WWII. Given to him by an old man who only asked that he use it to kill the hated Japs as it had been used to kill the enemies of his people for years and by generations. Said to be a headsman’s blade it was the product of a master smith blended with the knowledge of the hand that would wield it. Now it lay waiting, too long to be a bolo or brush knife, too thin and wide for a sword, but something else. Something made for only one thing and as close to perfection as the hand of man can achieve. The little ripple marks told of its steel to any with the eyes to see, heated and folded over and over, hammer welded each time until it was a fine example of the best of the smiths art. The once silver sides were covered with the patina of countless years but the edge was sharp enough to wound the wind. The ultimate tool for ultimate endings, it was now waiting for the hand of its master.

She stumbled to a halt. For the first time in God alone knew how long she felt the sun on her face and the breeze in her hair. The signs of cruel usage were on her, blood and a carelessly used whip had dimmed her sight to a red mist, the lumps and misshapen fingers spoke of bones broken, blood and less worthy fluids leaking down the insides of her shapely thighs were witness to dark passions fulfilled, the ruins of breasts meant that she would never suckle her babies, and the blank look on the battered face told of horrors too awful to face. Her mind had retreated to a small corner to hide and watch as one would watch a TV documentary on the holocaust, something that though real seems unreal and distant. That she could stand at all was a testament to the strength of youth and her will to continue even in the face of naked terror and lash of pain beyond any imagining.

Standing dumbly and blind, she waits as his hand finds and caresses the sharkskin hilt and lifts the old blade from the stump where it waits. The gentle breeze cools the fires torturing her while the scents of spring remind her that there is other than what has commanded her life for too long.

As the blade starts the back swing a bird’s soft song trills through the leaves and lifts her damaged soul. Her drooping head lifts as she searches for that sound of life in her sea of death and agony. His hand now reverses the swing and the razored edge gains speed. The feel of the warm sun lays on her like a balm as his wrist begins to snap forward to gain the highest speed possible. While the destroyed face inhales and she glories in the sweet air after the smells of her own blood and vomit and urine the skin on the back of her neck parts as the old blade touches it.

Spinal bones give way easily, the thick cord in them is severed, and the muscles separate as simply as butter flows before hot steel. She is still unaware of the death even now parting her flesh as the sound of the birdcall thrills her. So beautiful, so beautiful. There is nothing left in the way to slow down the swift passage of the old blade as it fulfills the function for which it was designed and made. Designed and made by masters in their crafts and now used by one who yearns to regain their lost arts. Arteries and veins fail to supply her blood to the brain and to return it to be reused over and over but it is not the fault of the soft vessels for they are no match for the bright edge as it severs them. Her legs start to buckle, they do not work without direction from the brain and there is no pathway left to carry messages. Without the strong muscles and the spine to hold it, her head starts to droop forward. Still the blade continues on, the twin tubes that carry the air to her lungs and the food to her stomach as well as the larynx that joins them part. The heart that has performed so strongly throughout her ordeal senses the loss of blood pressure and prepares to beat faster but before it can the blade exits in a spray of blood.

With smell of spring and the birdcall fading as her brain functions cease from the lose of blood and the oxygen it carries, her head and body fall together but apart. Bright red blood fountains as the first of her heart’s extra efforts fails to compensate for the massive damage. The effort continues for that is what is required of her heart, to give its all in the face of mortal danger and it knows no other way. What once was a young beautiful girl lands in the dirt and lays there twitching, the red fountains get shorter and shorter but come faster and faster until there is no more blood to pump. Her severed head lands and rolls a short distance to stop with

her face toward the sun. A small puddle forms under the smoothly cut flesh as the small amount of blood left leaks to join that already spread by her hard working heart. No doubt, she would have enjoyed the heat of the sun on her yet and the twitching of her eyelids gives the impression that she is blinking in wonderment at her condition but she is already dead even though parts of her still attempt to function.

He stands and gazes at his handiwork and wonders afresh at the perfection he holds in his hand, the old blade seemed to guide his hand as he swung and the ease with which it made the passage through her neck was magical. The body before him still leaking the fluids of life is a testament to his skill but he knows that skill is dependent on the old blade. Just as the old blade is dependent on him to slack its age-old thirst for blood.